


Patience

by ASimpleArchivist



Series: TFP Love [6]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Attempt at Humor, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Gratuitous References to Self Headcanons™, Holoforms, Holomatter Avatars, I wrote this in One Day™️, I'll edit this in the morning, I'm shook at how quickly I managed to write it all, Nipples™, Plumbing Problems, Pre-Established Friendship, Pre-Relationship, Reader is dfab, Reader-Insert, Silly, This whole thing probably doesn’t make a lick of sense though, Unresolved Romantic Tension, and No it's Not Like That, and both secretly pine for the other, because that's how ratchet's life always goes, because this would be the perfect time for it, but it made me laugh so here it is, but whatevs, even though that ends up being a joke, fem!reader - Freeform, human reader, i'm going to sleep now, is 'Sleep-Deprived Humor' a tag?, ratchet tries his hand at being a plumber, reader is female, this is kind of out there even for me, this was such a self-indulgent whim of a fic, ugh I don't even know how to tag this, which is really impressive for me tbh, wooooo, you and ratch get along well, you'll understand, your landlord's a bitch who knows no meaning of the word 'maintenance'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-16 10:37:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17548073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASimpleArchivist/pseuds/ASimpleArchivist
Summary: You're a patient person. Really, you are. But drippy faucets are the bane of anyone's existence, and you enlist the help of your local miracle-worker.There are...mixed results.





	Patience

**Author's Note:**

> The working title for this fic was ‘Calling All Plumberbots’ and I striked it because it was just a tad too bad. But, I thought y’all would appreciate that fact.  
> Also, if you want a reference for how I imagine Ratchet’s holoform, look up Robert Taylor (the Longmire one). Imagine him, just...tweaked slightly, according to the description here. He’s my faceclaim, but I do have artistic liberties lol.  
> Also, stupid sleep-repressed jokes are stupid. I’ve been thinking about holoforms lately, and what the ‘Bots would have to adjust visually when they’re low on fuel. I was also really tired the day I thought of this idea, and when I thought of The Joke, I couldn’t stop laughing for a while. This was borne slowly on nothing but exhaustion, giggles, and silly humor I hope you all enjoy reading as much as I did writing. (Seeing Ratchet in a more light-hearted light always makes me feel better.)  
> (Don’t mind the brief monologue about scenting, it was just a thing my tired brain produced that I was too tired to omit or edit. Personal headcanons are abound there.)

You’re a patient person. Really. You have to be, given your profession in dealing with absolute delinquents that dare call themselves _Homo-sapiens_ over the phone with mediocre reception on their end at best. You’ve grown as a person since you decided you wanted to work out of your apartment, went through many a trial and tribulation, and you’d like to say that you have a fortitude of dealing with bullshit better than most. But said apartment was shitty as hell and the landlord didn’t even know the definition of maintenance - a strong price to pay, given how cheap it is. It fit your budget, though, and it gave you a home when you hadn’t had one before - having privacy and a roof over your head was much preferable to the alternative.

As thankful as you were, however, it did not negate the fact that still hadn’t given a response to your memo requesting that she allow you to hire a plumber - you’d even noted that the fees would come out of your own pocket, and that you’d find the best one in town (within your admittedly narrow price range, of course, but you hadn’t added that) - and when your alarm clock had ticked over to 12:00, it had marked exactly five days since your bathroom’s sink had started leaking.

And no, it wasn’t a steady trickle that would threaten the integrity of the tile floor or give you proper reasoning to demand that she get _somebody_ to fix it - it was the satan’s piss of leaks, incessant and never-ending, the bane of every human’s existence since the dawn of modern plumbing, courtesy of the Roman empire.

 _This is probably what caused Nero to lose his shit,_ you thought, rolling over and burying your face so deeply into your pillow that you hoped it would just smother you, _forget the lead poisoning - he had a damn drip somewhere near his bedroom and it drove him right over the edge at eighty miles per fricken hour. History has lied to us all._

You squeezed your eyes as tightly shut as they would go, fists gripping the pillowcase in hopes that you’d be able to forget about the worst-manifested demon that had been haunting you for so long. And for a moment, it disappeared. Hope, foolish and all too brief, flared within you and you let out a soft sigh of relief, lifting your head to breathe in the cool air of your bedroom and readjust on your side. _Now, just to relax…_

…

…

…

... _drip._

“Oh my _god_ ,” you keened, reaching up and gripping the roots of your hair as you curled up into a ball and reintroduced yourself to your pillow face-first. It wasn’t even _consistent!_ Not once had it had the same rhythm for more than two minutes - it’d hit a steady three-four beat, then stop for about five minutes until it picked up at a perky six-eight. Now it was...four-four. Great. _Wonderful._ **_Marvelous._ **

You were prepared for murder. Forget being morally upright - being sleep-deprived for five days could turn anyone into a cold-blooded killer. You could see now why it had been a form of torture, back in the day. It was _agonizing._ You were _miserable._ You were **_desperate_** _._

And with that, heart palpitating in the closest physical manifestation that the pinnacle of anger and frustration could bring, you blindly reached for your phone on your nightstand. So done were you, it didn’t even faze you when the brightness of the screen nearly blinded you as you scrolled through your contacts. You jabbed at ‘Doctor Doom’ repeatedly until the call icon opened up. You lifted it to your ear.

 _“What the_ **_frag_ ** _do you need at two a.m.?”_ was the almost immediate greeting you received from the mech on the other end.

 _Probably pulling another all-nighter,_ you thought with a touch of exasperation.

You sighed nonetheless and turned over onto your back, rubbing your face before staring blankly at the swathe of shadows concealing your ceiling. “Hey, Ratchet. You remember that time I helped you fine-tune some of Optimus’ internals because I had the advantage of ‘tiny, fragile hands’?”

 _“Yes…?”_ he answered, sounding suspicious.

“You promised me a favor,” you said, remembering no such thing but you were fairly certain you’d likely teased him about it. You were _very_ desperate, and you hoped he had enough blind kindness in his spark to help you out, just this one time. “So. What do you know about plumbing, Ratch?”

_“...What?”_

“...Plumbing,” you repeated slowly, suddenly getting the feeling that this would a lot harder than you’d thought it would be. “You know. Pipes that transport water and...not water. They’re in every modern human building ever.” You paused, brows furrowing. “It can’t be much different than the piping in your own bodies. It’s the same concept.”

 _“...Ah.”_ He sounded just as confused as before, but at least he was humoring you. _“Why would you be asking me about - ‘plumbing’?”_

 _Christ,_ you’d known him for so long you could _hear_ the air quotes.

“I’ve got a leak,” you explained, “in my faucet. It’d be a lifesaver if you came over and looked at it.”

There was a long pause that just boasted of the potential of being awkward. Inevitably, it blossomed, because that’s just what your life was: an endless turning wheel of bullshit complete with spokes of the universe’s cruel and morbid sense of humor.

 _“...Is this one of your human ploys to entice me to, ah…”_ He reset his vocalizer, but fortunately (and unfortunately) you caught on to what he was implying before he continued.

“ _What?_ ” You sat up abruptly, torn between hysterical laughter and mild bewilderment at the notion that he was even _aware_ of that trope or mortification that he would think that _you_ of all people would try to pull such a thinly-veiled trick on him. Male mentality applied to even non-organic metal life forms, you supposed. You settled on a bemused wheeze of a laugh that you hoped he wouldn’t perceive as _guilty_ and instead incredulous, as you’d intended. “ _No!_ Hell, Ratchet, it’s fricken two’o’clock in the morning, I wouldn’t-” You laughed in earnest, then, dropping your forehead into your other hand and shaking your head slowly. “No, I’ve... _heh,_ I’ve got a leaky faucet. An _actual_ leaky faucet, that’s not…” You took a deep, steadying breath, trying to get a grip on yourself - you were perfectly aware of how prone to giggle fits you were when tired (see: _exhausted to the point of delirium_ ), but this was ridiculous. If you weren’t careful, you’d lose it, and then there’d you’d be. Acting like a complete and utter idiot in front of Ratchet would do no good for the meager semblances of respect you’d managed to glean from him for being responsible with the kids and helping him out with some of the technical difficulties his computers had. “Just...come over. I’ll explain more when you get here.”

_“...Fine.”_

And with that, he terminated the connection. It left you feeling oddly bereft, uncomfortable like you’d offended him - but you figured he likely just didn’t have much patience due for the late hour.

You made yourself useful by tidying up your bedroom, straightening the sheets and picking up the errant articles of dirty laundry (namely the number of seven bras strung about on every available surface like virgin offerings to an ancient, forgotten god). You tugged on a lightweight jacket, fully aware that you weren’t wearing one of said seven, which you _should’ve_ put in the weekend wash already but had forgotten about - the last thing you wanted was to make this whole scenario any more painfully awkward than it’s conception had already proven.

You’d managed to pick up the utter mess that your bathroom was and even start on the living room by the time you heard the familiar, throaty rumble of the old ambulance on your street - the brief flash of dimmed headlights peering through your windows cast dark shadows over your living room, and you hurried to the door that led to your garage.

The horrid creak that accompanied you opening the garage door made every hair on your body stand on end, and you glanced out to make sure no one would stumble out their front door and threaten you and your impromptu visitor with a shotgun for disturbing the otherwise silent night. You got the door open without incident, and you gestured the orange and white vehicle into the garage before closing it again, more gingerly than before.

Ratchet’s altmode was bigger than you’d anticipated, though, so you had to squeeze out from behind him and around him so you could get back to the door. The engine rumbled when you patted him on the hood.

 _“Now what?”_ he asked, his voice seeming to filter through the entire vehicle itself. He didn’t sound particularly happy, but he didn’t have the ‘give me a good reason for being here, else I’m leaving’ voice, so that was a marked improvement to his usual mood.

You just gestured wearily through the doorway, giving his cab a pleading look. “Just...you got enough fuel to use your holoform for a while? I think it’ll be easier than using mass displacement.”

There was a brief pause, and you could see that the screen and buttons on his dashboard flickered briefly. _“...I do, but not for long.”_

“Great.” You sighed with relief, though you made a note not to keep him longer than necessary. “I’ll just...wait for you in here.”

He only grunted in response, and you stepped into your living room and out of sight so you could drag your palm down your face. _This...ought to be good._

Soon enough, you heard a zap of energy that was not unlike the crackle of static, just more pronounced and concentrated - and then a burly form of a man stepped up into your doorway. You’d thought Optimus’ had shoulders, but Ratchet’s holoform would easily be able to contend with him - he was certainly no wimp, likely derived from the fact that field medics were required to be able to carry others up to twice their size or more. It made sense that it would carry over into the human approximation of himself. Similar to his frame, he had shiny, pearly white hair that was tied back in a tight knot, with a more youthful ginger sporting the roots near his temples with a streak down the middle of his head, as well as the stubble on his chin. His eyes were a piercing blue, skin a dusky tan, but the basic white t-shirt and loose gray cargo pants were much different from the lab coat, sweater, and slacks combination you’d seen before. Even still, you had to admit that he wasn’t terrible to look at, and you watched silently as his eyes focused on the room around him, flitting from every decoration and piece of furniture until he let out a soft snort. He didn’t look critical of your home, which relieved you - but you wondered when and why you’d worried about what he’d think of your place, of all things.

“Alright,” he groused, digging his free fist into his hip and meeting your eyes with a quirked, expectant brow. His other hand held a toolbox that almost looked too bulky and heavy to carry, but then again he _was_ just a solid projection of light and thus probably didn’t have as many physical limitations as humans did. “Where’s the problem?”

You let out a breath, gesturing for your bedroom. “In here.” You added, after a beat, with a wry smile, “After you.”

* * *

“Pass me the wrench.”

“Pass me the wrench…?”

Ratchet rolled his eyes, huffing as he glared holes through the myriad of metal and plastic and rubber parts and tubing above him. Or tried to, anyway. “Ugh. _Please._ ”

He could almost _hear_ your cheeky grin through your voice alone - he’d known you long enough to recognize the playful (if not just plain _mischievous_ ) streak you kept hidden most of the time. “Here you go. You’re welcome.”

He grunted. The cold, weighted tool was placed into his awaiting, open palm, and he raised it above his head to tighten one of the joints that could’ve been adding support to the culprit. He exhaled heavily when he paused, waiting, and still heard the drip. He swiped at his forehead and scratched at the stubble on his chin, following the pipe and trying to determine the source of the issue. It was difficult enough to concentrate as it was, looking up information online as he tried to make sense of the clusterslag the underbelly of your bathroom sink contained - he was just thankful that you weren’t trying to butt in with your opinion or tell him what to do. It might’ve been because you were clueless and knew nothing of the piping mechanisms, but if he knew you at all, it was more likely due to you just being polite and considerate about the way he worked. He was...thankful for that, admittedly.

He sighed again, reaching up and rubbing at his eyes in hopes that it would improve his vision. Filtering through instructional guides and prognosive tutorials was straining him, but he’d be _damned_ if he didn’t fix such a basic concept of technology.

Needless to say, trying to fix a sink a tenth of his normal size at whatever Primus-damned cycle you’d called him at was not what he’d viewed himself doing when he, Optimus, Bulkhead, and Bumblebee had first crash-landed on earth. Then again, he hadn’t ever thought he’d interact with humans firsthand (other than Agent Fowler, of course), but here he was, in your home, trying to fix a problem that normally he would’ve instructed you to figure out yourself. He hadn’t, though, and now he had to deal with the consequences.

Not that it really felt like a consequence. He was more irritated with the contraption itself than at you.

“Figure it out?” you asked softly, unintrusively, as though you were perfectly aware that it was a rhetorical question. He grunted a negative, and you fell silent once more. He tapped at his lips a moment, brows furrowing, and tried to think logically of what the source could be by process of elimination.

Your home was...not what he had been expecting; though when he thought about it, he didn’t quite know what he _had_ been expecting. It was surprisingly cozy, lived-in in a way the ragged exterior of the apartment did not boast. He could easily see bits and pieces of you scattered throughout the decor - as long as it had been since he’d been a true home of any sort, he could still tell that you’d put much feeling and thought into how you had everything arranged. From the tiny succulents lining the front windows to the worn blanket draped over the back of your couch to the assortment of candles and knick-knacks on the shelves to the gently used books tucked evenly into your bookshelf, he felt nothing but the very essence of _you_ just _saturating_ the place.

It hadn’t helped him much when your scent had only been intensified when passing through your bedroom, the pleasant notes of coffee and old parchment obvious and soothing compared to the cold stone and burnt circuitry he was used to in the silo. His sense of smell was much more condensed in this form, even though he was able to detect a wider spectrum and fainter traces normally - it was making it difficult to concentrate. You...you didn’t stink, it just...it was...nice. In an odd, unfamiliar way. Cybertronians didn’t have particular scents that belonged to themselves individually - he supposed, in a way, EM fields took that position. But humans all had a certain scent that, while they themselves couldn’t always detect it, carried more information about themselves than they probably realised. Jack always smelled of cooking grease and mediocre cologne, Miko of sweat and soot (always running around, tagging along with Bulkhead), and Rafael had more subtle hints of pen ink and

It had bothered Ratchet, at first, but now it was...just there. Something else that was added to the base rather than forced in like he’d first thought it would. The silo almost felt...empty, whenever the kids were gone long enough that their scents would fade from the air shifting and them not being there to freshen it. It wasn’t something he discussed openly, of course - he’d learned through a brief interaction with Agent Fowler years prior that humans weren’t particularly fond of the knowledge of how sensitive Cybertronians were to smell. Medics in particular were vulnerable, needing to determine minute things like whether a Cybertronian’s coolant has turned septic or their energon is too low a grade to support their systems, so even to the others his ‘talent’ (if anyone could even call it that) remained something they’d rather not discuss. He never felt particularly inclined to share the information, anyway, given that he spent most of his time tending to his duties and making sure the four of them didn’t send themselves afts-first into the Pits every time they left the base.

His eyes zeroed in on a damp spot near the upper rear of the sink, the subtle glisten of water catching his more adapted vision.

“Ah- _hah,_ ” he crowed, eagerness and victory surging up inside him as he reached for the troublemaker. He easily identified it as the control valve that channeled water from the rest of the house’s piping, which seemed loose. All he had to do was tighten it.

He felt your hand rest upon the taut muscle right about his knee, a question starting to leave your lips, but the soft press of your skin made him jump. “Did you find i-”

Ratchet’s hand jerked too far forward, and the resounding snap it made was quickly drowned out by a metallic grown and the roar of water.

“ _Dear_ \- Primus, _fraggit!_ ”

You yelped and stumbled back as a blast of frigid water drowned out his string of curses, going down his nose and throat and washing out his eyes. He clamped them shut and reached blindly with the wrench in hopes of repairing the mistake he’d made, but it was knocked from his hand by the force of the river gushing right at him.

“The - the seal!” he gargled out, bracing himself on an elbow and reaching out of the sink’s cabinet to jab a finger in the general direction of the primary control valve under the toilet. “Fragging - _turn it off!_ ”

He scarcely heard you scrambling over the dampening floor, felt you clamber over his writhing legs, and he came up for air he didn’t really need when there was a creak of metal and finally, finally, the water trickled to a stop. He sank back down with a groan, grimacing as he began to shiver. He felt an odd prickling along his arms and legs, but he was too busy lamenting the mess the water had made of his holomatter’s clothes and hair to take note of it. He slowly eased himself out from under the sink, rubbing the water from his eyes with a grumbled curse towards whoever had decided that ‘plumbing’ would have ever been a good idea.

There was a soft laugh, half tentative and half amused, and he blinked until his vision cleared. You were sitting there, the hems of your clothes wet but otherwise untouched, a hand over your mouth as you stared at him with something like worry.

“Are...are you okay?” you asked, and he could see the subtle sparkle in your eyes.

 _Fragger._ He sighed, pursing his lips to restrain the tug that he felt at the corners. “Fine. Just...cold.”

“Did you forget about righty-tighty, lefty-loo…” You trailed off, eyes dropping slightly before rounding.

His eyes narrowed. “What?”

“You…” you started vaguely, but your cheeks suddenly filled with color and you began to laugh. _Hard._ The sound filled the bathroom, echoing off its walls, and Ratchet watched as you completely _lost_ it. He stared, bewildered, but you only continued to giggle and haw. You tried drawing in a breath to speak, but as soon as you locked eyes onto his soaked form again, it sent you careening back into laughter. “You - you didn’t-”

You keeled over, unable to even keep yourself upright. You sank back slowly, leaning against the bathroom wall and tipping your head back to reveal tears trickling down the curves of your cheeks. You were flushed, mouth stretched almost unnaturally wide as you wheezed silently for your robbed breath. Your stomach spasmed and you clamped a hand over your mouth, peering at him through your dewy lashes with colorful irises that _glittered_ with unrestrictable mirth.

Ratchet might not have been a human physician, but he knew for certain the signs of sleepless delirium - something that had carried over from Cybertronians to Earthlings, evidently. Even still, it was...nice, to see you in such a light. He liked you to laugh, and if he’d accomplished nothing else that night ( _morning_ , the grouch further within his processor reminded him disdainfully), then he’d count this. Your occupation often left you stressed and tense, and to see you so...relaxed was a welcome change.

Even if he was the butt of whatever joke you’d managed to come up with to amuse yourself so thoroughly.

And honestly, it was getting a bit hard not to join in - your laughter was _infectious,_ not unlike Optimus’ used to be, before he was...well, Optimus. It only ever took a couple of shots of the ultra-refined energon to loosen him up, and by Primus a tipsy Orion had always been one of the funniest experiences Ratchet had ever had. But you - you were similar, but different at the same time. Even still, it it was taking most of his effort not to smile as you finally buried your reddened face into your hands and tried forcing yourself to breathe steadily. Peels of giggles still leapt from your lips, and he barely had time to smother the knee-jerk spasm of a reaction his own holoform had before a laugh of his own escaped - he knew it would only make yours worse, and then it would be an endless cycle of nothing but exhausted laughter from there.

Ratchet pressed the blade of his hand over his upper lip to hide the way his lips were pursed, crouching down and catching your gaze through the slats between your fingers. “I didn’t what?”

That only served to set you off again, losing most of your limbs’ mobility as your head slipped back against the tiled wall with a muffled _thunk_. Your laughs petered out into hazy giggles, and you gestured at him vaguely. More specifically, his chest.

“You didn’t-” Giggle. Sluggish wave. Maniacal grin. “-you didn’t give yourself _nipples_ , Ratchet.”

Ratchet stared. You looked just on the verge of another fit, now that you’d admitted it out loud. He glanced briefly down at himself, taking internal stock of the things he’d had to adjust in order to form his holoform with his low fuel. Then he looked back up to you, raised an eyebrow, and shrugged.

Fortunately, you’d seemed to let out most of the laughter contained within you ( _That was how it worked, right?_ ), and only let out another winded giggle before sitting up to tap the end of his nose with a playful little grin. “You have goosebumps,” you explained, gesturing towards his hairy arms where tiny little bumps were still prominent under the skin. He studied them curiously. “That, and the - the classic _thin white shirt_ scenario…” You laughed again, shaking your head slowly. “I’m sorry. I’m five days short on sleep.”

“You’re a fragging nuisance, is what you are,” he grumbled, ears turning hot.

“Oh, but you love me for it,” you retorted with a tired smile that almost, _almost_ \- just about - made your eyes glow.

It puzzled him, how highly humans revered the concept of love, and yet tossed the word about as though it were confetti at any one or thing that they thought deserving. The irony of humanity’s duality has been one of the many sources of his scorn for them for years, but...now he almost found it endearing. He believed Miko whenever she’d tell Bulkhead that she loved him - was the sincerity in June’s eyes when she’d tell Jack the same as she left the base after bringing the children lunch. It always carried a weight with it, when it was said as fact rather than whim or humor - he’d determined that much just by being around you and the children. And...the warmth in your eyes, your smile as you gazed at him...

But...he didn’t love you. Not...not quite.

At least he didn’t think so.

He wasn’t entirely certain, and that concerned him more than he would like to admit.

Nevertheless, it was a thought he wouldn’t would address another time.

“You should get some sleep,” he sighed, rubbing at his face and shivering when it caused water to drip down from his hair onto the back of his neck. “I’ll...do some research. We’ll try this again tomorrow, when we’re both-”

“Recharged?” you quipped playfully.

“...Yes.” Ratchet shook his head before easing himself to his feet, offering you a hand. You were surprisingly light, and he almost pulled you straight into him with the momentum he generated pulling you upright. You wobbled a little, likely from oxygen deprivation caused by your humor attack, and you gave him a grin before reaching up and brushing the wet strands of hair out of his face and behind his ever-warming ears.

“Let this go,” you told him gently. “I’ll get your tools and meet you back in the garage.”

He didn’t protest, didn’t argue, and released the holoform. The ghost of your fingertips on his cheekbone followed him into his altmode, and he hoped that you wouldn’t notice his cooling fans kicked on to the lowest setting. A couple of minutes of waiting passed, and then you appeared in the doorway doing your best to lug the toolcase with both arms. He opened his passenger’s side door for you, mindful of the wall, and you dropped it into the floorboard with a huff of exertion.

“You’re damn jacked, Ratch,” you told him, swiping at your forehead. He scoffed and shut his door, watching warily as you rounded to the front of his altmode. You patted his hood, gazing through the windshield as though it were his source of vision, despite him knowing that you were perfectly aware it wasn’t. Nevertheless, you smiled, and shocked him into silence when you stooped and smooched the ornament in the shape of his Autobot badge on the nose of his hood.

“Thanks,” you said softly, a gentle smile warming your face even in the dark.

“For what?” he questioned, wanting to sound haughty, but his vocalizer failed him and only produced a whisper. “I broke your sink.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “You gave me a good ol’ dose of the best kind of medicine.” You offered him a playful wink you most definitely would not have given him had you been in your right mind (at least, he didn’t think so). “That makes you one of the best doctors I know. Besides, I know you’ll figure out how to fix it in no time. It’s no biggie.”

“...’One’ of the best?” he found himself pressing.

Fortunately, you took it as a joke, and you laughed and patted his hood fondly. “Okay. _The_ best. At least you don’t give me shots in the ass when I get a sniffle.”

He hummed, his engine revving as he purposefully glossed over your latter statement. For his own sanity. “Better.” He kicked into reverse, flashing his rear lights to make a point. “Now let me out of here so I can get some fragging sleep.”

“Whatever, you grouchy old nightowl,” you teased, squeezing around him once more to pry the garage door open. It didn’t make so much as a sound this time, which would’ve puzzled him more had you not swatted his bumper on the trip back to your door. He lurched onto his front wheels, hoping his mortified yelp had not escaped from his vocalizer and had, in fact, remained entirely internal. “Good night.”

He paused. Then let out an ex-vent in the form of a gush of exhaust. “Rest well, _biblichor_.”

Before you had the chance to say anything else, question the verbal risk he’d taken, he reversed smoothly out of your garage and onto the road. He saw you wave at him, and flicked his headlights once before cruising down the street. Out of his peripheral, he saw you close the garage door, and then you were gone, as if an apparition of the night that had never been there in the first place.

He distracted the heat thrumming through his energon lines by reading up on plumbing the whole drive back to the base.


End file.
